Chapter Nineteen
Sam
There’s no response from Ciara as I once again find myself standing on her porch in the blistering heat, wondering if she’s even in. Wondering though I already know the answer.
There’s no car in the driveway. No windows open nor signs of life.
I’ve been here for ten minutes, and no one’s answered the door.
She’s not here.
So, of course, my brain conjures up the worst reason why.
With you?
I put my bag down and sit on the porch steps, easing my legs out as I stare at the garden.
I’d been thrilled when she said I could stay here. Professionally, I wanted to do anything to get this book done. Personally, the opportunity to stay in Frank’s house is not one I could turn down. And then the other part of me, the quiet, selfish part, just wanted to spend more time with her.
I just don’t let myself think about what I want that time to look like.
I drop my head into my hands, rubbing my face harshly as if that might erase any thoughts of her.
I’d love to say it was the hangover that kept me away this weekend, but no, that’s just plain cowardice. That’s me putting space between us so that I could have a clear head. Except it doesn’t feel clear. It still feels as hazy and addled as ever. It still feels full of her.
And it’s because of that that I’m probably able to hear her car long before I see it.
I’m like a pet dog waiting for its owner to come home, and I only fuel that comparison when I jump to my feet, watching her car approach.
By the time she pulls up, I’m ready to be my most professional self, and even throw in a wave when our eyes meet through the windshield.
She doesn’t look happy. I’d go so far as to say that she looks distinctly unhappy, which makes my stomach sink, but thankfully, she seems to snap out of it as she gets out, and by the time she climbs the porch steps she’s smiling.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine.” But the words come out like a grumble as she slots the key in the door. “This morning was just a solid reminder of why I don’t write in public.”
“Because of the faces?”
“What?”
I grab my bags and follow her inside. “A lot of my writers make faces when they work. They’re usually worried about that.”
“Now I’m worried about that,” she says, turning off the alarm. I close the door behind me and for a moment the two of us just stand there, looking at each other.
“So,” she says. “Welcome.”
“Thanks again for letting me stay.”
“Yeah, well. It’s not like I don’t have the space. I made up a bed for you and everything.”
“Such luxury.” I follow her up the stairs. We turn right this time, going opposite to where the offices are as we head to another wing of the house.
The room she leads me to is nice. Much nicer than the one in Delaney’s. There’s a bigger bed for one, and a mirror and a desk. She’s wheeled in a rack that I presume is to serve as my closet and has even set a small vase of daisies by the bed.
“Shut up,” she says when I pick it up. “It’s a nice thing. I’m being nice.”
“The nicest,” I say, setting it back down. “Do I get a full tour now?”
“You’ve already had a full tour. Do you want to see the attic? There’s nothing but spiders in there. And probably a ghost, I haven’t checked.”
“Is there a basement?”
“Irish houses don’t have basements. Please don’t bring your American ways into my home.”
“You had a basement in your last book,” I say, and roll my eyes at the look on her face. “I told you I read them.”
“Yeah, but don’t quote them back to me. That was lazy writing. I was untrue to my setting, and for that, I apologize.”
“Uh-huh.”
She lingers in the doorway, her hands shoved in the pockets of her shorts. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen. And I guess that’s it.” She takes a step back. “Try not to disturb the ghost,” she adds, and disappears down the hall.
I unpack.
It takes about as much time as it did in Delaney’s, which is to say, no time at all. A quick test of the bed proves it to be much comfier, and yeah, awkwardness or not, this will do just fine.
I put my suitcase away, plug my laptop in to charge, and open a window before grabbing my wash bag. There are two doors on the other side of the hallway, and I reach for the one opposite mine, expecting to find a tiled, plain bathroom like the one by her office.
I don’t.
But I know what I’ve found instead.
It’s the smell that hits me at first. A clean, floral scent that stops me in my tracks. That I didn’t even know she smelled like until it’s like she’s standing right in front of me. Close enough to touch.
Ciara’s room.
It doesn’t look like the rest of the house—a clean, orderly world that feels like no one lives in it at all. This space is very much lived in. Very much hers.
An unmade double bed is pushed against the wall with plain white sheets rumpled at the bottom.
There’s a vanity table and an overflowing laundry basket.
A yoga mat and a fern that looks like it has two to three days left to live.
An enormous, tasseled lamp dominates her bedside table, barely leaving any room for the stack of crime novels balanced on the edge, and above it she’s hung a painting, a large canvas of green and gold swirls that catch the setting sun perfectly.
This must have been her childhood bedroom, because the bookcase door she mentioned before is to my left. It looks as if it leads to her closet, though most of her clothes are strewn about the room.
I take a cautious step inside, unable to help myself even as the floorboard creaks beneath me. But as soon as it does, Ciara calls from downstairs as though she’s been waiting for that exact moment.
“Get some beer!”
I take one final glance around and close the door before dumping my stuff in the bathroom. Downstairs, I find the beers in the fridge and Ciara on the porch, sitting along a bench with her legs propped up on an upside-down basket.
“Gimme” is all she says when she sees me, and she makes a grabby motion with her hands as I step over her legs and pass her a bottle.
“This is nice,” I say, stating the obvious. It’s more than nice. It’s blissful. You can’t hear any traffic out here. Can’t hear anything but the low buzz of crickets and the faint calls from farm animals in the distance. “You must come out here a lot.”
“Yes, because it’s always like this,” she says. “It is never windy or cold or wet or—”
“Okay.”
“I feel like I need to hammer home that this is not a normal summer for us.” She takes a sip, staring out at the garden. “At all. Plus, we’re due some storms soon. Big ones.”
“Never work for the tourist board.”
She readjusts her legs, crossing one over the other, and I watch from the corner of my eye as she brushes a blade of grass off her thigh.
Golden hour. I get why they call it that now. The soft warmth of the light highlights every strand of hair, every inch of skin. As though the universe is pointing a spotlight right at her, guiding me her way, telling me to look.
I force my gaze to the trees. “How did your writing go?”
“You mean, how did my sex scene go?” she asks with a sly look that I don’t know what to do with. “I got interrupted. But I’ve taken your feedback onboard even if I don’t agree with it.”
“You don’t agree with it?”
“I think I’m already going over the word count with a fifth of the book still to go, and after you made me cut a whole council scene for pacing, I don’t understand why we need to add a bedroom scene.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking or not.
“We’ll need at least two bedroom scenes,” I tell her. “And probably a bit more in between.”
“Where the hell are we going to put them?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“But there’s no room for—”
“We’ll find room.”
She gapes at me, looking so confused that I can tell she truly doesn’t get it.
“You know The Last Mountain is a love story, right?”
“The Last Mountain is an epic saga about the ravages of war and the greed of men.”
“It’s a love story,” I repeat. “It’s Finn and it’s Maeve. That’s the whole point of the book.”
“That’s a large part of it, sure, but—”
“It’s the whole point,” I interrupt. “And it’s the ending. You think we can give them their happy-ever-after with no buildup?”
“There is buildup,” she says, but I can hear the doubt in her voice. “There’s just other stuff as well.”
“But nothing as important. Think about it. Why else are they still going? Every other character has either died or given up. What do you think they’re both fighting for?”
“Territory expansion.”
“Ciara.”
She smirks, but I know she’s listening. “A love story,” she says, and I nod. “Okay, well now I feel dumb.”
“Don’t.”
“Hmm. No, I do. Feels extremely obvious now that you say it.”
“Makes it simpler, though, doesn’t it? With a big series like this, authors tend to lose their story four or five books in, but your dad knew what he was doing. We saw in his notes that Finn and Maeve were always his ending. And you need to remember that in every word you write or else you’ll—”
I break off when she smiles at me. A wide, happy smile that makes me forget what I was saying.
“What?”
“I like it when you go into editor mode,” she says. “You get all passionate. Use your hands.”
“My hands?”
She gestures with her own in the air, exaggerating the motion until I scoff. “All right, I’ll stop.”
“No, it’s cute,” she protests.
“Cute when I talk, cute when I’m drunk.” I sit back against the bench, and she cringes.
“You remember that, huh?”
“Told you I would.”
“Lesson learned.”
I feel her eyes on me as I take my first mouthful of beer, and, when I look over again, I find her contemplative.
“I’ve never written a love story before.”
“You’re writing one right now,” I point out.
“I guess so.”
“Just don’t be afraid to give them their moments.”
“And lose their clothing,” she adds, but there’s no mockery behind the words. She still sounds as if she’s thinking. As if she’s taking it seriously.
“We can discuss it if you’re not convinced.”
“I’m convinced,” she says, relaxing back. “I put my faith in you, Sam. You’re the only one here who knows what they’re doing.”
And to that I have no answer. Because when it comes to the woman beside me, more and more, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing at all.